The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [166]
“It is going to be a bad day,” he predicted.
Shortly, a contingent of cavalry and Rurales appeared at the far end of the crowd. Their brasswork gleamed in the sun. Plumes, flags. This seemed like no normal patrol. He opened the door and called inside: “Boss!”
Tomás joined him.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Trouble.”
The people in the crowd shied away from the horses of the soldiers, like cattle trying to evade ropers. Suddenly, five soldiers waded into the crowd and pummeled a man to the ground. Tomás could see their rifles rise and fall as they butted him where he lay. The crowd jumped, surged. A man on the other side broke and ran. Tomás watched the mounted officer gesture once. His riders raised their rifles and fired as one. The sound was small and blunt in the heat, like a thin piece of wood being broken in half. A cloud of dust exploded from the runner’s shirt, and he somersaulted over the edge of the arroyo.
The officer’s horse started toward the house. The crowd parted. They fell far back, trying to make a wide path for the rider. He came ahead, leading a horse with a slumped prisoner tied to its back.
It was Juan Francisco, Tomás’s eldest son.
And the officer was their old friend, Capitán Enríquez.
Tomás stepped forward.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“Don Tomás,” said Enríquez, tipping his hat.
Juan Francisco had a black eye.
“We found this bandit on the road to Alamos,” said Enríquez. “He claims to know you.”
“You know very well he is my son!” sputtered Tomás.
“Do I?”
Enríquez gestured for his men to cut Juan free.
Segundo helped him down and took him inside.
Enríquez said, “Will you offer a representative of your government a drink of water?”
“Of course,” Tomás replied.
Enríquez dismounted. He removed his hat. Tomás called for the house girls to bring a glass of water. Enríquez drank it down when it came and wiped his lips on his sleeve. He handed the glass back to the girl, who ran to the safety of the house.
“Gracias,” he said to Tomás.
He looked at the restless crowd.
“We hear much of this rancho in Guaymas.”
“What do you hear?”
“Nothing good.”
Tomás said, “There is nothing bad here. Perhaps some fanaticism. But it will pass.”
“Will it?”
Enríquez patted his horse.
“We found two rebels in your yard, Don Tomás. Do you doubt there are more?”
Tomás raised his hands.
“Surely, you can’t expect me to know who is in this throng.”
“Why not? Is this not your ranch? Are you not in charge? If you are not in charge, then who is?” Captain Enríquez turned to him. “The cavalry would be happy to control this situation for you if you are not able to attend to your own duties.”
“Captain!” Tomás said, grabbing his arms. The riders behind drew their weapons. A Rural was off his horse in a second, holding a rifle in Tomás’s face.
Enríquez raised one hand.
“Calma,” he said.
The crowd was slipping back farther as they spoke.
“There has been talk of this place,” Enríquez said. “And I have been charged with warning you. The talk will cease. This,” he gestured at the pilgrims, “will stop.”
“How?”
“My old friend,” said Enríquez, “I will honor you by offering you the chance to repair this damage on your own terms. Find a way to end it, or we will end it for you. Comprendes?”
Tomás hung his head.
“Sí.”
“Now.”
“I understand.”
“Your son,” Enríquez said, “could have died today. We could have hung him. You are very lucky. You should count yourself blessed and get on with your life.”
He mounted. He tossed Tomás a crisp salute.
“Make sure, Don Tomás,” he said, “that you go back to your old harvests.” He turned his horse. Then, over his shoulder, he added: “Or I can assure you that Cabora will reap a harvest of lead.” Enríquez spurred his horse and trotted away. His riders jumped aboard their nags and followed him.
The beaten man was already tied at hands and feet, and he was tossed over the back of Juan Francisco’s horse while a small group of women wailed and tore at their hair and their dresses.
“Harvest of lead!” said Segundo. “What a poet.”
Tomás went